


And the Living's Easy

by nenson



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Anal Sex, Anxiety Disorder, Asthma, Cock Warming, Cock Worship, Established Relationship, M/M, Pining, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 11:36:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13658181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nenson/pseuds/nenson
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak is addicted to the stretch of his boyfriend's dick in his ass and he's starting to get anxious whenever he's empty.





	And the Living's Easy

**Author's Note:**

> Originally intended just to be a drabble but I couldn't help myself l o l
> 
> un beta'd

Riche’s sort of dumbstruck, at first.

 

“Huh?”

 

It’s been two months since Eddie’s started weaning himself off of his asthma medication and one month since they’ve started fucking. Like, for-real-fucking, not just hasty handjobs in the bed of Richie’s truck while they wiled away the time left till the end of the school year—till freedom. Sex. Summer-sticky stuff. Eddie’s panting beneath him, Richie’s own faded t-shirt from band camp a few summers back rucked sloppily up his back, logo twisted and rippled. His stupid little cutoff denim shorts are pushed down around his skinny thighs, both of them too hasty to bother taking off their clothes in any kind of intentional way before they’d tumbled into Richie’s bed. Arms wrapped around a pillow for him to squeeze the stuffing out of while his boyfriend plowed him. Both sweaty and fresh from biking around town with the rest of the Losers, Bill on Silver at the helm, slaloming from storefront to sleepy storefront. Eddie’s ass in his shorts, _Christ_ ; they could hardly make it home quick enough.

 

Richie’s still buried in Eddie and through the heavy—heavenly-- curtain of his orgasm, his brain is taking a few extra seconds to unscramble the words still hanging in the humid space between them.

 

“Can you, like, keep it in?” Eddie asks again in the tiniest, tiniest voice.

 

Richie feels a pearl of cum leak down Eddie’s taint. The shirt’s peeled high enough that you can see the tender dint of shadow that lies between his shoulder blades. Tan. No freckles.

 

“Wait. You mean you don’t want me to—pull out?” Richie asks, struggling to breathe, or to think. Trying to understand what his boyfriend’s hedging at, feeling just generally mystified, the way he did in grade school before his mom figured out he was blind as a fucking bat and got him to an optometrist. Eddie, known germophobe, hypochondriac hand-wringer extraordinaire, has always been the one to pull away after they fuck, anxious to be clean, even swiping up all the jizz with a wet-wipe once (Richie had laughed at him that time, joking playfully as his dick and balls were swabbed down, _you like my dirty D,_ Et cetera). The cum in Eddie’s ass squelches as Richie gingerly lowers himself onto his forearms, hissing at the pressure on his overstimulated cock. Chest dips to fevered back.

 

“It feels… It makes me feel good.” Richie can literally _hear_ the way Eddie’s eyebrows are drawn down in concentration, can feel the vibrations of the admission move through his own body. So, with a sigh and only a little fuss from Eddie, he turns them on their sides, spooning together on the bed, which might as well just be the straight mattress considering it’s too hot in the house to have bedding of any sort. They stay together for as long as they can stand it in their sweltering skins, Richie’s fingertips fogging the lens of his glasses when he grips them by the end piece to pull them off ( _use two hands_ , Eddie always harps, _or you’re gonna twist the frame_ , but Richie’s other hand is otherwise occupied by holding his hip right now, so). They stay that way until Richie says he thinks his bladder is going to explode and pulls out in the most painfully conscientious way possible, wincing all the while, and makes his way to the bathroom down the hall.

 

Eddie, wrecked, lays still and listens to the sound of him pissing, all the doors thrown wide open to brace up the flimsy crossbreeze through the house. A lawnmower roars to life somewhere down the block. He lays a tacky forearm across his eyes and moans.

 

See, what Eddie wants to say instead, is: it makes me feel _safe._

 

Richie quickly finds this out when it sort of becomes the order of things, even if it’s never expressed more than tacitly. Eddie starts asking for it all the time, like he can hardly get enough, begging Richie to keep his dick in afterwards every time they manage to sneak off, even for a quickie. When they’re together, when Richie is balls deep inside him, everything’s sighing and hot, sloppy kisses, contentment; when he’s not, Eddie’s vibrating all over, jiggling his sunburnt knees or running a hand through his hair or reaching on instinct for a fanny pack he’d left behind long ago. Richie Tozier’s no genius, but it’s not hard to draw the correlation between Anxious Eddie and Happy Eddie, sleepily squirming on his cock.

 

Once, Richie stops what might be Eddie’s first full-blown asthma attack in three years. The Losers have been out in the old JV field behind the high school all afternoon, playing soft-ball, sorta. More like Stan and Mike lazily arcing the beat-up ball back and forth while the rest slurp on grape popsicles and a six pack of Bud somebody stole from their parent’s garage while they sit on the grass and look on (Stan doesn’t drink, neither does Eddie, so Richie’s loudly claimed the extra for himself). Richie notices that his boyfriend’s been fidgety since they messed around this morning, hands knotting into the half-dead field and pulling up dry chunks. There’re little milled bits of grass floating gauzily on the breeze and dust peppers the air, kicked up by Mike as Stan whips him a fastball, flash of silver duct-tape and wiry muscle. The sun is just starting to droop in the sky overhead, making heat shimmer spring up above the bald patches of dirt, and Richie licks his lips. Since when has it been so God-damn _hot?_

“Eddie? You good?” Ben is asking, leaning close. Richie can hear the telltale, terrible wheezes, and his heart clenches up. He hasn’t heard those in a long, long while.

“Water,” Eddie suddenly croaks, hand shooting out to grasp at Richie’s. They find each other, grab tight.

 

Richie ends up leading Eddie somewhere over by the field house where he hazily remembers a drinking fountain being, an old memory held over from periods spent skipping PE.

It’s all in Eddie’s head. They both know this, know how Mrs. K spent years fucking with her son’s mind so deep that it literally made his the breath seize in his throat, something Richie will never forgive her for. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.

 

Eddie’s gasping, now, face going all red, swooning into Richie’s chest as he pushes them up against a cool, terra-cotta wall. He hasn’t been this scared since he can remember, trying to splash water from the fountain spigot on Eddie’s face, which is lukewarm and tastes like rust, anyways. They don't have an inhaler; Eddie stopped carrying it months ago. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.

“Eddie, baby,” Richie pleads, rubbing at his skinny chest under his shirt, trying desperately to get his dumbass lungs to work right. “What can I do, how can I—how can I help?”

“F-fuck me,” Eddie wheezes, and Richie wants to laugh like a hyena and clock him at the same time. “Please.” He can hear the whistle in the words, the dry, dangerous edge that means Eds’ throat is closing up quick.

 

When Richie slides into him, right there in the shadows, it’s like popping a balloon. The tension deflates instantly, the push easy and loose and still wet from the load Richie left in him earlier, kept plugged with his cock for a good half hour before breakfast roused them both. Eddie’s head drops back against the wall where he’s been flattened to it, thick lashes fluttering closed in relief. His little hands cling to Richie so tightly that he’ll have bruises there tomorrow, ringed around his biceps, but it doesn’t matter. His breathing has gone deep and even. Richie maneuvers them to the concrete so that he doesn’t have to hold them both up for however long it’ll take for this to pass.

“They call me Magic Dick Tozier,” he says, settling Eddie on his thighs. “I should charge for my services.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie huffs, and nips his shoulder.

 

Richie contentedly licks the salt from the hollow of his boyfriend’s neck, and hums, thinking of the relationship between asthma and his cock. Psychosomatic, the both of them.

 

When they stumble back and Bev what took them so long, if they were banging out behind the playground or some shit, Richie doesn’t bother coming up with an excuse.

 

So Richie’s pushing his dick into Eddie every chance he gets. When they go to sleep. When they’re watching reruns on TV. Once, fully dressed and sitting at the kitchen island while they’re supposed to be eating ham sandwiches, Eddie furtively speared full on his lap, instead. Richie’s mom comes in to the two of them feeding each other chips, head leaned back to shoulder, finger-licking good and giggling.

They freeze.

“Really, boys?” she asks, good-natured, angling for the fridge. Eddie feels Richie’s dick twitch inside him as she rummages around, ever the bad-boy insurgent, and he has to stifle a moan. Their heartbeats echo each other, blood-hot and pulsing where they’re conjoined, metering out the seconds till eternity. After an age, she finally leaves, iced tea clinking in hand.

Her office door slams closed, and Richie promptly devolves into cackles. They both fall into each other, exulted and crimson, Eddie half-sure they’re going to shake to pieces, but that’s ok.

 

They were _made_ to fit together like this.

 

In the middle of July, Richie goes on a camping trip with Stan and his folks, which Eddie is not allowed to go on for the usual reasons (Richie can’t help but get a little spooked when he thinks about how much those few days wear on him, nerves stretched to snapping by their separation. Can’t think about the impending fall, starting life at two different schools--). Too much order, too much yes-sir-father-sir and perfectly bated fly-fishing hooks and Boy Scout brand wholesomeness for Richie’s liking, anyways.

He gets home and the first order of business is picking up Eddie. He speeds on over even though he’s just spent all day in the car, coasting through stops signs still stinking of Deet and B.O in a way that he knows will annoy his boyfriend to no end. Turns out it definitely pushes some buttons, just not the ones he anticipated; he’s barely pulled into his driveway, engine still ticking to a stop, when Eddie’s shoving his pants down, crawling over the stick shift to make it to Richie’s lap. It’s twilight, a Sunday, and Richie runs a brief mental calculation of how likely it is they’ll be caught while simultaneously trying to make sure Eddie doesn’t seriously bash a vital body part on anything. He’s acting like a maniac, one of those caffeine junkies whose hands shake in the penance of their wicked withdrawal, eyes ready to pop out of their skulls.

“Woah, woah,” Richie says, running his hands soothingly up and down Eddie’s sides. He realizes that the boy in his lap is trembling, and some part of him imagines that he’s gotten skinnier just in the span of three days.

“I missed you,” Eddie murmurs, though that’s clearly an understatement. They’re crotch to crotch, and Richie’s sorta freaked out right now but those little cotton shorts are definitely shifting the odds in the favor of _fuck it_.

“Aw, Eds, you’re gonna melt my widdle heart. I missed you too. ” Richie coos, sliding a hand down the back of his boyfriend’s underwear cause he already knows what he wants. His middle finger brushes Eddie’s burning hole, gentle and probing, and he frowns.

“You’re not stretched, baby.” It’s been a few days; plenty of time to tighten up.

“Don’t care.”

“What if it doesn’t, like, fit.”

“Make it fit,” he whispers, mouth falling wantonly open so that Richie can see the white row of his teeth behind the roll of his bottom lip, plump, spit-wet, and oh, _shit!_ Richie cranes the short distance forwards, grinning like a maniac into the kiss, making their teeth click against each other. One hand rests on Eddie’s bare thigh, feeling around for the little tub of Vaseline he keeps in the console with the other.

 

He has an idea.

 

It’s late August and Richie shows up at Eddie’s place with a black, opaque plastic shopping bag. His eyes are flashing behind his glasses, which is never a good sign. Eddie keeps munching his salad, ankles twisted around the legs of his stool. The prospect of the end of summer vacation—the end of getting to see Richie every day, of being full with him all the time—has turned him melancholic, irritable.

 

The box makes a solid-sounding clunk when it lands on the table.

 

“What’s that?” he asks, finally, pointing accusingly with his fork.

 

Richie smiles, then opens the cardboard, peeling aside white tissue paper. Eddie chokes.

 

His boyfriend is holding a ten-inch hot-pink dildo in his hands.

 

“Should we call it ‘Dick Tozier,’” Richie asks, “or is that too on the nose?”

**Author's Note:**

> comments are very very appreciated as always !


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